


in your fantasy, dream about me

by middlecyclone



Category: Lovely Little Losers
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Kittens, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:13:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I love you,” Peter says, and in the kitchen he hears the kettle click off. “Good morning,” he adds, softer.</p>
<p>“It’s nearly afternoon,” Balth points out, “and also your water’s ready.”</p>
<p>Or: three quiet, domestic, sickeningly-sweet mornings with Peter and Balthazar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your fantasy, dream about me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Emotion by Carly Rae Jepsen.

“I had a weird dream,” Balthazar says, unprompted. They’re sitting at the rickety wooden kitchen table in the flat; Peter is drinking coffee, and Balth is drinking what looks like green tea. It’s foggy outside, too early and too cold for the sun to have burned off the morning damp. It’s nice.

“A nightmare?” Peter asks, voice still sleep-rough. “You okay?”

Balth shrugs. “It wasn’t really a bad dream,” he says, “just–strange.”

“Was I in it?”

“Nah,” Balthazar says with that crooked half-smile Peter loves so much, “it was me and Freddie and, uh, Kanye West?”

“That sounds _terrible_ ,” Peter says into his coffee.

“Like I said, it was weird,” Balth says, “Kanye kept trying to set the flat on fire but Freddie wouldn’t let him, and then halfway through I left because I had to take an exam in Swedish, but I don’t know Swedish, so it didn’t go very well, and then I woke up.”

Peter’s not really sure what to say about that. He takes another sip of his coffee.

“Anyway,” Balth says, “I’m not sure what my subconscious is trying to tell me there, but probably nothing good.”

“If I’d been there,” Peter tells him, “I would’ve let Kanye West burn our flat as much as he wanted, and run away with you to the beach long before your Swedish exam even started.”

Balth smiles at that, soft and warm and quietly delighted. “Yeah, Pete,” he says, “I know,” and hooks his feet in their ugly wool socks around Peter’s ankles underneath the table.

It’s still too cold outside, still too dark, still too foggy. It’s still nice.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s alarm goes off, blaring obnoxiously loud in the too-early pre-dawn gloom. He has an early class that day, and he’d wanted to go for a run first, but as he hits the snooze button on his alarm he’s seriously considering just sleeping for an extra half an hour and exercising some other, non-nightmarishly early time.

He drifts back into sleep until his alarm goes off again, but as he hits the snooze button a second time, the electronic beeping is instantly replaced by a different, stranger noise from the flat’s living room.

It sounds like … a _meow_.

Peter drags himself out of bed at that, curiosity accomplishing what obligation couldn’t, and pushes open the door to see Balthazar sitting on the couch, cooing over something small and fluffy in his lap. Peter can’t actually see exactly what he’s holding, but he has a theory, and he doesn’t like it.

“Balth,” Peter says, “please don’t tell me that is what I think it is.”

Balthazar starts at that, and stares at Peter guiltily. “That depends,” he says, “on what you think it is.”

“I think it’s a cat,” Peter says, and crosses his arms.

“Well,” Balth hedges, “technically it’s still a kitten, so–”

“Where’d you even get a cat,” Peter says, exasperated, and then checks his phone. “Especially at–6:19 in the morning–”

“Went out to check the mail, found her under a bush,” Balth says. “C’mon, Pete, look at her, she’s so small. She’s _too_ small. I couldn’t just leave her out there.”

Peter can’t even be surprised anymore, he really can’t. Only Balthazar could take three steps outside and adopt a pet before breakfast.

“Balth, no,” Peter says. Balthazar just looks up at him, eyes huge and pleading. The kitten looks at Peter too, eyes equally huge and pleading, and then it _starts purring_ , the tiniest and sweetest noise.

Peter’s not exactly thrilled about it, but his heart melts like ice cream on a hot day, right then and  there.

“You can hold her, if you want,” Balth offers, all faux graciousness, and before Peter can blink he’s had what may be the world’s smallest kitten dumped unceremoniously into his arms.

She’s tiny, and smells kind of terrible, and her fur would probably be softer if it was cleaner, but she’s still kind of painfully adorable. She’s got kind of a tortoiseshell pattern, with a white splotch across her chest and white sock feet, and the largest green eyes, and she’s _still purring._

“This is stupid,” Peter says.

“Oh yeah, for sure.”

“Fred is going to kill us.”

“They’ll never even find our bodies,” Balthazar agrees solemnly. “She’ll dump us in the ocean and we’ll wash ashore in 5 years, our bodies all decayed and eaten by fish. They’ll have to check our dental records to even know it’s us because we’ll be all oozy and unrecognizable.”

Peter makes a face at that. “Gross, Balth.”

“I’ve put some thought into this,” Balth says, “and I’ve decided that our inevitable graphic murders will be worth the few minutes of cuddle time we get with the best cat in the world.”

Peter thinks about it. “Actually, yeah,” he says, “you have a point.”

Back in his room, Peter hears his alarm start to go off again, and he winces. “Let me go grab that,” he says, and starts to head back into his bedroom. There’s no point in waking up Freddie a second sooner than necessary.

“I’ll make pancakes,” Balth says. “We may as well enjoy our last meal.”

Peter smiles at that, and doubles back quickly to kiss Balth softly on the cheek. “Thanks, babe,” he says, and then he hears the telltale signs of Fred banging on the wall between their rooms, telling him that the alarm’s already been going off too long.

“Ah, shit,” Peter mumbles, and runs back to turn it off, already wincing in preparation of the fight to come. It was a nice morning, while it lasted.

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes up one Saturday and it’s 11:42 AM, which is barely morning still, but he’s willing to count it. It had been a long week of classes, followed by a late shift bartending the night before. Peter feels like he’s earned the right to lay in, at least this once.

He walks into the living room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and sees Balthazar sprawled across the floor reading a frankly enormous hardcover book, all the couches and assorted chair’s completely empty around him.

“What are you doing, babe?” Peter says, his voice still morning-rough, and Balth rolls around onto his back to look at him.

“Reading,” he says, and stretches, catlike and golden in the light.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Peter says agreeably, smiling. “Any reason you’re on the floor?”

“It’s in the sun,” Balth says simply, “I like the sun.”

“I’m gonna make coffee,” Peter says, “you want anything?”

“Nah,” Balthazar says, then stops. “Actually, yeah, can you just grab me a glass of water?”

“No problem,” Peter says, because it isn’t, and goes into the kitchen. It’s surprisingly gray in there, despite the fact that it’s nearly noon, and he thinks for a moment that it would be just like Balth to have found the single sliver of sunshine in the entire flat. Because in his own way, Balth is kind of like Peter’s own personal ray of sunshine, always–

Peter makes himself stop thinking things quite so sickeningly sentimental, then. He’s always been a bit of a sap when it comes to Balth but this was a new low, even for him.

He fills one of the tall glasses he knows Balth prefers from the tap, and stares briefly at the way the cloudiness from the tiny air bubbles dissipates, slowly at first and then all at once, until the glass is perfectly clear all the way through.

He starts the kettle for coffee before he heads back to the living room. Balth is lying on his stomach again, his legs crossed up in the air behind him, and Peter can’t help but notice the way his too-big sweater is pushed up to his elbow to expose too-thin wrists, can’t help but see and smile at the fact that Balth is wearing possibly the thickest and ugliest olive green knitted wool socks he’s ever had the misfortune to see in his life.

Peter sits down next to his boyfriend’s head, and sets the glass down on the carpet next to the book.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

“Eh, just this book Ben lent me,” Balth says. “It’s about these two cousins who kind of invent superhero comics during World War II. It’s pretty good.”

“I’ll have to borrow it next,” Peter says, and can’t stop himself from leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of Balthazar’s head. His sandy-brown hair is radiant gold in the sunlight, and beneath his slender fingers the pages of his book are sun-drenched and blindingly white.

“I love you,” Peter says, and in the kitchen he hears the kettle click off. “Good morning,” he adds, softer.

“It’s nearly afternoon,” Balth points out, “and also your water’s ready.”

“Not noon yet, I still made it,” Peter says, and gets up to go make his coffee.

“I love you too,” Balth says, and his face is still pointed down but Peter can hear the smile in his voice, knows it matches the dopey too-sweet smile he can’t seem to wipe off his own face.

Peter’s never been much of a morning person, but Balthazar’s been converting him, day by day.

  


 


End file.
